Frustration
by dioxazinepurple
Summary: Javert searches in vain for something he seems to have misplaced. Features frustration and kittens.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Frustration** by D. P.  
_Javert searches in vain for something he seems to have misplaced._

Minor edits for punctuation included.

* * *

"This is intolerable," Javert muttered through gritted teeth, tossing aside copy after copy of _La Moniteur._ With strands of hair escaping its orderly queue, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and fingers blackened by newsprint, the inspector was the very picture of frazzled annoyance.

"I know I saved it – I'm sure of it. Why isn't it here? Damnation, this is _important_," he growled, pulling paper after paper off of the large stack in the corner of the room. "All these blasted useless papers! Where is it — ah!"

Javert's triumphant grin fell from his face when he saw the large square hole in the newspaper he held. The article, in its entirety, had been removed from the page. He felt a scowl slowly form on his face; if searching for a single newspaper had taken him nearly an hour, imagine how long it would take to find the article!

"What on God's green earth possessed me to cut it out?" he asked the walls of his empty flat, sliding backwards from a squat into a cross-legged position on the floor next to his small kitchen table. "I, Javert, do _not_ clip articles from newspapers. Why must my memory fail me now when the matter is so pressing?" he muttered, tossing the damaged copy of _La Moniteur_ back onto the pile in which he had found it.

Javert had a very strict morning routine that he repeated every day without exception. His morning ritual of skimming the paper over breakfast and tea had resulted in the slow accumulation of half-read, discarded newspapers in his flat. After a few months, outdated copies of _La Moniteur_ littered all of the available flat surfaces in his kitchen, and Javert realized that it was time to consider establishing some sort of method for disposing of the newspaper each morning. However, the idea of simply throwing out a potential venue for information about arrests, convictions, and alleged criminals seemed a waste to the inspector, and so he began stacking old copies of the paper in no particular order against the wall in his kitchen.

His memory of the article was vague at best. He remembered feeling reassured by it, remembered deciding that it left no room for doubt. The man was dead, and that was that. However, events that had come to light since he first read that article led Javert to question its contents, and wonder if he had in fact missed some information it provided the first time he had read it. After all, it had been quite early in the morning, and he had likely been occupied by toast and tea at the time.

"Where _is_ it?" he growled, ripping open drawers and cabinets, nearly frothing at the mouth with a curious mix of anger, frustration, and the sudden urge to laugh at his stupidity. "Javert, you stupid, stupid, _stupid . . ._" he began, then proceeded to let out a string of curses in every language he had command of, and even a few he did not.

At the end of what turned out to be quite a long list of words, Javert found himself sitting in the middle of his kitchen floor, laughing uncontrollably. Occasionally, a word such as "ridiculous" or "unbelievable" would form in between bursts of mirth. Slowly, over the course of a minute or so, the laughter died down, leaving Javert silent and panting slightly. Then, quick as a flash, his brow was set with determination, and he was on his feet. He rolled down his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs as well as his vest, retrieved his jacket from the settee where he had tossed it earlier in his haste, and donned both coat and hat. Just as he was slipping his key into his pocket, a small grey cat darted through the kitchen and wound itself around his legs, purring softly. The cat had run from the room and taken refuge in the bedroom when Javert had first started flinging newspapers about the kitchen. Upon sensing that the danger had past, she returned just in time to protest his departure.

"Stop that, you little minx – I fed you already. Besides, I think I know where the article went. If it isn't here, it must be in my office." The cat mewed softly, rubbing against his legs a second time. "You're getting hair on my trousers," Javert said, nudging the cat away with his foot. "Yes, the article is at my office; I'm sure of it." He opened the door and had begun his exit when another thought prompted him to turn back to address the wide-eyed grey cat.

"While I'm gone, I don't want you anywhere near my papers, understood?" The cat meowed again in reply. "In fact," Javert continued, "don't even think about what you'd like to do to my papers. Don't even let the shadow of a thought cross your mind. If you do, understand that I will have no qualms about letting our massive landlady dice you and have you for dinner." As if the little grey cat could sense the warning in his voice, she scampered away to hide underneath the divan. "Smart cat," he said. "Now – to locate that blasted article."

At that, Javert shut and locked the door behind him, scowl returning as he realized how much time he had wasted tearing his flat apart in search of that article. The cat watched his departure from underneath the settee, eyes fixed upon the perfectly square piece of paper tacked above the door that fluttered temptingly every time the door opened or shut.

Upon closer inspection, that perfectly square piece of paper appeared to be an article, one neatly clipped from _La Moniteur_ some months back. The cat eyed it closely before losing interest and leaving the room in search of more entertaining pursuits.

The placement of the article above the door was such that it must have been tacked there so as not to be lost or forgotten. The lettering was slightly faded from the sunlight that bathed it every afternoon between three o' clock and sunset, and there was a slight stain in one corner that may or may not have been from tea, but it was still quite legible. The article was quite small, only a paragraph long, reading,

_17 November 1823. Yesterday a convict working aboard the _Orion_ fell into the sea and was drowned after rescuing a member of the crew. The body has not been recovered. It is assumed that it was caught in the piles under the Arsenal jetty. The man's prison registration number was 9430 and his name was Jean Valjean._

Only a few blocks away, two junior officers stood just outside the door of the police post, enjoying a smoke during their lunch hour, gossiping quietly about the unearthly scowl that had lined the Inspector's face as he stormed past them moments earlier. Their whispers were cut short by a series of crashes and bangs coming from what they supposed was the Inspector's office. Wide-eyed, the junior officers stared at one another, wondering what, exactly, the inspector was searching for.

All this occurred while, back in Javert's flat, the little article flapped in the breeze.


End file.
